


Samhain

by edgy_fluffball



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Curse Breaking, Curses, Enjolras is a Fae Prince, Enjolras is cursed, Friendship/Love, Happy Halloween, M/M, Masquerade Ball, Samhain, Soulmates, death mentioned, lost friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 13:55:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21254450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgy_fluffball/pseuds/edgy_fluffball
Summary: There is a curse on the fae prince, everybody knows that. It is ages old and no one can break it. Enjolras must find his soulmate by the strike of the clock at midnight on Samhain, if he wishes to safe an innocent soul from death and damnation. Twenty years he has attempted to find them, twenty fae lost their lives. The time takes a toll on him and even his friends struggle to keep his spirits up.And the next Samhain is coming up, demanding him to face his fate...





	Samhain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infinityandluck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinityandluck/gifts).

> I actually wrote this last year for my dear friend Percy but now I have edited and improved it.  
Enjoy and have a spooktacular Halloween!

As soon as the faint rattling of the carriage wafted up the promenade out of the fog rising from the river, the bell on the main tower began to toll. The nightmarish sound echoed back from the moors, leaving the will-o’-the-wisps shivering over their marshes. It reached the edges of the dark forests where it got caught in the threatening arch of spindling branches and trunks of the black barked beeches, birches and oak trees in the rustle of a gust of wind. The last leaves clinging to barren twigs sailed to the muddy ground on its back, long dead before they touched the bare earth around roots that desperately hang on for what little footing the gaunt earth promised them. Lastly, the eerie peal drifted down to the shimmering lake, swirling above the surface for a moment before dipping under water, muffled by the crystal waves. The sound of the bells resounded over the abandoned manor house, clinking the window panes in their setting. It chased a couple of ravens off their perch on the bell tower, followed them through the abandoned gardens and settled on the wall surrounding the graveyard beyond the hill.

The ornate wrought-iron gates creaked open, moved by an invisible hand to allow the carriage to enter the courtyard. Its wheels scattered the light gravel in all directions as it took a turn in front of the main entrance, a pale lantern dangling from the coachman’s seat. The figure perched on it was swathed in a cloak that obscured both head and body, leaving nothing to see but the gleaming eyes under the hood. Gloved hands held onto the reigns of four black horses that seemed eager to run on, steam billowing from their muzzles and ears dancing in excitement. The coachman restrained them with obvious struggle. For a moment, the fight seemed undecided, then the horses settled, huffing more steam into the crisp evening air. A door was opened, the carriage house tilted to one side and gravel scrunched under boot soles.

It was as if the house had waited for this sound and the obvious liveliness conveyed by it to show its own life. The torches and lanterns around the courtyard flared up in their holdfasts, the windows shone with candlelight behind them and the front door opened with a bang. A shadow spilled over the stairs, drowning out the light that had escaped from the inside.

The men who had stumbled from the carriage looked up towards the main entrance and the figure leaning against one of the massive stone columns of the erechtheum.

‘There you are then. I have waited for ages,’ he stepped out of the shadows of the columns.

‘You waited long enough to send the ravens,’ one of the newcomers shouted up to him, ‘and Baz couldn’t find his mask –‘

‘- so yes,’ another one chipped in, ‘we are running a little late.’

The four young people came up the stairs. They wore ornate frock-coats with the seams decorated with gold and silver thread, the base cloth of frock, waistcoat and breeches shining in all colours of the rainbow. One of them wore the waistcoat open over a simple shirt, the next one displayed a lavish cravat adorned with a gem stoned broach, and another’s waistcoat displayed an extravagant floral pattern reflected in the ornate decoration on the handle of his walking stick, an accessory without doubt. The fourth was the first to reach the top of the stairs, polished boots clicking together at the heels in a salute.

‘The bell tolls, we hurry to your door and await your orders. The year is ended, the curse not lifted, we serve your every will,’ he bowed in front of him with a solemn face, ‘Have you been well, Enjolras?’

Their host welcomed each of them with a hug, careful not to squish their opulent costumes, ‘Thank you, Combeferre. It has been an uneventful time without you, Courfeyrac, have you not grown bored of your mother’s court quite yet?’

‘What, with Ferre and Bahorel there to entertain me? With Feuilly arrived for the Samhain celebrations? Never, dear friend, never,’ he kissed Enjolras’ cheek and looked back to his companions, ‘we had a jolly journey here, the marshes truly are exceptionally uncanny tonight.’

‘They are just right,’ the last of them buttoned up his waistcoat before bowing before Enjolras, ‘there came an owl swooping in over the hollow tree.’

‘The moon is up.’

‘The ravens sent.’

‘The time is now.’

‘The place is here.’

Enjolras motioned for them to enter the house, ‘The four of you have been missed dearly. Is it a year already?’

‘I wonder who is going to be the unlucky victim this year,’ Courfeyrac danced through the entrance hall, swirling around his own axis, ‘which tribe’s turn is it this year?’

‘The lake people,’ Combeferre caught him by the wrist, ‘you can dance all night, darling, don’t tire yourself out now.’

‘Whom are they going to present?’ Feuilly took Enjolras’ hand the ghost of worry on his face, ‘you have grown thinner and paler.’

‘Should I be rejoicing at the aspect of another young fae giving their life because an age-old curse will not allow my family to be happy?’ Enjolras lead them up the wide staircase, past gold-plated mirrors and painting frames, over thick, blood-red carpets and polished tiles, ‘Should I be happy about the opportunity to see another young fae go to their death because the elders appointed them into a position they did never plan to hold?’

Feuilly stroked his hair in calming motions, ‘You are right about that. But until midnight, you can have a good time. Maybe, they do not step forward, maybe they will chose not to tempt fate.’

‘They all have,’ Enjolras motioned to one of the near invisible servants to carry on with their preparations of the evening, ‘why wouldn’t they, prospect of being consort to the seelie court?’

‘Your parents –‘

‘- my parents died trying to lift the curse and it has not changed a thing. We still have to host this damn ball, hoping for a miracle and an epiphany when the masks fall. In here, my friends.’

Enjolras opened the grand valve and waved them in. The servants, had decorated the ball room for the evening enjoyments, banquet and dancefloor parted from each other. The flower garments, bouquets and food platters made for colourful highlights around the otherwise shining, polished surfaces. Chandeliers cast their light onto every reflective surface in the room, the mirrors that would later shine like diamonds, the crystal cuttings on the lamps, the prisms embedded into the floor that would later shine and reflect back from the jewellery and decorations of gowns and coats and from the frail wings some tribes displayed openly.

‘We are all set for tonight,’ Combeferre squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, ‘there is a reason we wear masks. No one will know who you are tonight, no one will know who the lake tribe’s appointed is and maybe, maybe – you will be dancing with the right fae by midnight.’

‘From your lips to the gods,’ Enjolras covered Combeferre’s hand on his shoulder with his, ‘thank you for being here with me.’

‘We will come to your side, no matter the challenge,’ Courfeyrac chipped in.

Their familiar faces made it easier for Enjolras to breathe the next question, a repetitive habit that had never gotten him a different answer from his friends, ‘Any word of Grantaire?’

Bahorel shook his head, ‘Neither word nor sign. He remains as elusive as ever, the poor soul. You will have to excuse him for another year. I’m sure he will come back to us eventually, when he has found peace in himself.’

Enjolras nodded slowly, covering the searing pain in his heart with a mellow smile. Their friend had been a source of trust, love and ardency during their growing up, reliable to lift their spirits, make light of things that seemed otherwise hopeless. Enjolras had drunk in his cheerful disposition that remained unscathed by the troubles of their youth like no other. It took them all by surprise when Grantaire had disappeared, shortly after the first Samhain ball Enjolras had to lead. He had all but stopped to speak and changed, his smile and vigour dying slowly as he retreated into himself, a mere shell of himself.

Shortly after, he had vanished, neither his parents nor the elders knew where he had gone and every year since, Enjolras hoped to see his friend again. He missed the way Grantaire had joked about the curse, making it seem not as bad as everybody else had been sure to tell Enjolras throughout his life. The emptiness in his heart still longed to see him, who had run in the face of the devastation and pain the curse evoked in the ones affected by it, doing what Enjolras wished he could do, every year anew. Still, he missed Grantaire in their group of friends like the sky misses the stars.

He pulled himself out of his thoughts, looking up into the expectant faces of his friends, ‘Did you bring my mask?’

‘Of course,’ Feuilly held out a light, soft bag, ‘only the best for the prince of the fae.’

‘And the best the greatest mask-maker beyond the marshes can create,’ Bahorel leaned against him and kissed his cheek, ‘no one will know you, Enjolras. Trust us!’

‘He made our masks as well,’ Combeferre showed a similar bag hanging from his belt.

‘Well then,’ Enjolras looked at the mask he held in his hands, ‘I cannot deny it suits my intentions.’

The simple, golden mask relied on its intricate pattern to hide the face of whoever wore it. The right side curled up into something resembling a wave and it emphasised his temples when he held it to his face, turned towards the mirror behind him. Even though it covered little but his cheeks and eyes, it was like looking at a stranger. Bahorel offered to tie the black velvet band behind his head.

‘Combined with those fine hair ornaments it will look even more breath taking than it does already,’ Courfeyrac assured him, placing his own mask and hat combination over his face.

Bahorel nodded once he was done with Enjolras’ mask and put his own silver wolf mask on, throwing his head back to howl against the high ceiling.

‘To a night of celebration and wonder!’

***

Fae from every tribe had gathered in the palatial ball room. The dark night settled over the manor, more lanterns and candles had been brought in to light every corner of the room and let the sumptuous colours they were wearing shine. A meadow tribe had brought their orchestra and they played one dance after the other to which the young couples spun across the dance floor. The elders of the tribes found pleasure in the food provided, their chattering almost as loud as the waltz music.

Enjolras kept an eye on his friends whilst he danced. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, clearly recognisable by the butterfly and hat mask they wore, danced slowly at one end of the floor whilst Bahorel and Feuilly swayed on the spot in front of the banquet table from where Bahorel would grab a chicken leg or a brochette to nibble on for a while. They had a good time, there was nothing else he could ask for his friends. He accepted another fae’s hand for a dance, his eyes darting towards the great clock on the wall behind the orchestra as he did so. Its long, spindly hands moved towards the twelve, looming over the whole celebration as a certain reminder that one of the merry group would not see the sun rise again.

A soft melody began and he led his dance partner further onto the floor. Their robe was too lavish for one of the lake folk, the red cloth used betrayed the attempt to seem tribe-less. Enjolras was not meant to be seen as the fae prince and the elders had decided it was the best to keep the chosen suitor’s identity a secret, too. The age-old curse did not discriminate between fae wearing masks and those who didn’t. The masks were a means to think oneself safe. Any masked dancer could be the suitor, any other the prince. If no one knew who they were dancing with, it proved easier to ignore the imminent death of an attendant. Enjolras had stopped thinking about the twenty fae that had died at midnight at twenty Samhain balls before because they were not the anointed suitor, and he had still danced with them until the bells proclaimed the end of the day and he was left to watch as darkness consumed them. He would find his suitor eventually, the forest elders had said after his parents had sacrificed themselves in a desperate attempt to break the curse that bound their child to its cruel will. Enjolras had known that their endeavour had failed. The elders had tried to comfort him.

‘You look sour, my prince,’ a familiar voice brought him back, ‘even behind that mask.’

‘Jehan?’ His eyes darted back to the clock to make sure that he did not endanger his friend, ‘why even are you dancing with me? How did you know it was me? Don’t you know – ‘

‘Twenty minutes, my prince, time for four more dances. As for recognising you, your posture and the line at your mouth gave you away. Additionally, you check the clock before every dance you begin. Your friends amongst all tribes know you well enough by now,’ Jehan smiled under their flower-adorned mask.

‘You found me out,’ Enjolras initiated a turn, keeping hold of his friend’s hand, ‘are you going to let me kill another innocent? Would you keep dancing with me, knowing it would kill you?’

‘I would, my prince,’ Jehan declared lightly, ‘and all your friends with me.’

The dance ended and Jehan bowed before him, their smile replaced by a sad expression, ‘You are going to find them tonight. I’m sure of it. Your suffering will come to an end.’

‘Well, you keep clear of me,’ Enjolras sighed and kissed their hand, ‘dance with Montparnasse tonight and worry not about my wellbeing and sanity.’

He turned and found himself welcomed by the next dancer who bowed and slipped their hand in his, fingers resting on his as light as a feather. The next dance, a slow, solemn waltz began and Enjolras felt himself being drawn back towards the swirling couples. His partner wore a simple, almost unremarkable mask in different green tones. They swayed slightly in his hold, relying on him to lead.

Enjolras looked into their eyes, kind, dark eyes that seemed to encourage him to dare another turn or rotation and felt his feet follow. He led them by their hand and it was easy to do so, moving to the soft melody the orchestra provided them with in the background. No thought entered his mind as he carefully placed his feet on the floor. He could see their reflection in the mirrors as they danced past and, for a moment, it reminded him of his parents dancing when he was watching as a child.

The eerie sound of violins accompanied them in their waltz.

‘You seem a little tense,’ a whisper, nothing more, and yet, Enjolras felt his hair stand on end, ‘are you afraid of dancing with the prince by accident?’

‘Yes,’ he said, trying to recognise the accent his partner spoke with, indicating his tribe and allegiance, ‘and you?’

‘No,’ the answer came promptly, ‘we all die at some point and I couldn’t picture anything better than dying after a whole night of dancing, fun and food. One measly curse won’t keep me from having a good time.’

Enjolras nodded slowly. These talks were not uncommon but most of his partners had expressed fear and uneasiness upon the possibility of their untimely death in a ball room. Most of them hurried off afterwards, determined to find a cheerier partner than him, prodding with questions that promised shadow and trepidation.

This one seemed determined to be in a good mood, no matter his words, ‘Do you want to know my name?’

‘Are names allowed on Samhain?’

‘You tell me. Don’t worry, I won’t press for yours, you seem pale enough under that mask. I’m curious, however – why does someone as seemingly straight-laced as you wear such lavish head ornaments? They do suit you but you seem wary of them.’

Enjolras cleared his throat, ‘Family heirloom. I’d rather wear them than risking to offend some spirit like the royal family did.’

‘No one offended anybody,’ the too-familiar voice said in an accent he could not place, ‘if you believe that, you probably also believe that iron harms fae!’

‘Doesn’t it?’ Enjolras lifted an eyebrow.

‘See this?’ A finger followed the edge of their mask along their jaw, ‘Pure iron. It is surprisingly comfortable.’

Enjolras followed their lead and touched the shiny mask, ‘It doesn’t feel painful.’

‘Because iron hurting us is a story we tell our younglings to scare them away from the ironworks in the mountains where the dragons are,’ their partner initiated another turn, laughing with the sound of water running over stones, ‘by the way, your hair is shiny.’

‘What are you, a dwarf that you love the pretty and glittering?’ Enjolras grinned and fell into step with them.

‘You would be surprised,’ the dark eyes behind the mask sparkled mischievously, ‘but don’t worry, that was more a spur of the moment remark. It looks soft.’

They turned and Enjolras saw Courfeyrac and Combeferre dance in passing. He was thankful for the mask covering his cheeks since he felt them heat up with blood rushing to his head, his friends would not have let him live it down otherwise.

‘Your hair is soft, too,’ he brushed it with the back of his hand, as if by accident.

A throaty chuckle rang in his ears as his partner dipped them into a challenging figure. He felt light, freed, his feet found sound footing in every step he took, despite the crowded dance floor and the banquet blocking the doors and windows.

The bell on the main tower began to toll. The nightmarish sound echoed back from the moors, leaving the will-o’-the-wisps shivering over their marshes. It reached the edges of the dark forests where it got caught in the threatening arch of spindling branches and trunks of the black barked beeches, birches and oak trees in the rustle of a gust of wind. The last leaves clinging to barren twigs sailed to the muddy ground on its back, long dead before they touched the bare earth around roots that desperately hang on for what little footing the gaunt earth promised them. Lastly, the eerie peal drifted down to the shimmering lake, swirling above the surface for a moment before dipping under water, muffled by the crystal waves.

Enjolras looked around. The music had stopped mid-song. No one moved or made a sound. Midnight had arrived and the consequences of his prolonged dance rushed towards him. He had danced four dances with his iron-masked partner, four dances, of which three could have meant finding his suitor and saving a soul that night. Hot tears welled up in his eyes as he met one shocked pair of eyes after the other, surrounding him in a circle, empty faces behind the masks. The candles and lanterns had gone out at a blow and the darkness beyond the marshes seemed to suffocate the house, seeping in through small gaps and cracks until it got hold of him and made him shiver with the cold of the obliterated hopes and dreams of many. Quiet whispers burned in his ears, bringing him back to where his dance partner had been a moment before, now vacant as the darkness devoured them in front of everybody, a warning example for all that dared to get close to their prince and his curse.

‘Another soul lost,’ he whispered into the darkness, loosening the velvet ribbon that held his mask, the sign for everybody to follow him and take off their masks, ‘another young fae claimed for the darkness.’

‘I knew you must have little faith in me, but this? This honestly hurts me!’ The all-too-familiar voice breathed into his ear, ‘Turn around, my prince!’

Enjolras did as he was told.

His dance partner stood behind him, dark eyes burning with a fire he could not fathom, one hand on his mask, taking it off as Enjolras watched. A collective gasp went through the rustling rows of fae, a breath held by hundreds let out into the night.

‘My prince,’ his dance partner bowed in front of him, dark hair spilling into his face, ‘forgive me that I recognised you and decided to keep you close to me, your anointed suitor of the lake tribe. I did not intend to cause you any distress, my dear.’

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras breathed, eyes finally spilling over, ‘is-is it really you?’

The masks clattered to the ground, made superfluous as he embraced a man he knew, an old friend, a familiar voice without the power of one constantly around him.

‘I hoped I remembered your voice correctly,’ Grantaire’s voice sounded breathless close to his ear, ‘I only had this shot to get you talking. I used Jehan to help point you out to me. A little.’

He looked up at Enjolras to meet his gaze, ‘I could not let you suffer through another victim of the curse, not again, not when I knew I could do something. It would have broken your heart and my will to live.’

‘The curse is broken?’ someone asked behind them, sounding unconvinced, despite the display in front of them.

‘The curse is broken,’ Grantaire replied, not allowing his gaze to leave Enjolras, ‘I was anointed the first year of the prince’s Samhain ball and I stand here to take my place at his side.’

He took Enjolras’ hand to lift it to his lips, pressing them to his fingers, unable to look at him as his eyes closed, only emitting a single tear to roll down his cheek. Enjolras found himself at a loss of words as he tried to understand the meaning of Grantaire’s words. It seemed like saying something so preposterous was beyond all measures of reason, so much so, that he failed to register what Grantaire had said, loud enough for everybody gathered around them to hear. He lifted his gaze to where Grantaire blinked between wet eye lashes, anxiously awaiting his response.

Enjolras took Grantaire’s hand in his, a wet sounding laugh escaping his throat, ‘I do believe I have found my rightful suitor. Light the candles, play music! The curse has been lifted from our lineage! From now on, Samhain can be what it was once intended to be, a celebration of our race’s traditions and customs! No fae will ever again have to fear to be dancing with the wrong partner, destined by a prophecy so in a fret it cannot see love and light thrive. No one will have to endure the pain and sorrow of Samhain balls past!’

Cheers erupted along the walls as fae found partners again, the orchestra set to strike up again and young and old flittered through the high hall, save for the elders who still looked on the commotion with stern looks and expectant eyes turned heavenward. Grantaire cleared his throat softly, pointing out Combeferre and Courfeyrac close by, both in tears and fighting to get to them through the masses. Enjolras turned just in time, embracing them, then Feuilly and Bahorel, Jehan and Montparnasse, his friends who had been at his side all these years. He embraced Grantaire again, prising him out of Combeferre’s arms who had occupied his shoulder with this head, wetting his costume with his tears. He was like the drowning man after his first free breath as he felt Grantaire melt against his side, into the position he had always been destined to fit, ever since they were little. Seeing Grantaire under his arm, smiling that blinding grin he had missed so much over years and years of agony and pain gave Enjolras more relief that the man dying of thirst after the first gulp of water.

Their hands fit into each other’s perfectly as they walked amongst the fae elders who slowly began to understand what had happened when no lightning bolt struck one amongst them down. A few shy claps were audible from them, soon joined by others until Enjolras and Grantaire stood amongst a shower of applause. The orchestra continued their piece, not cut short by the gruesome wind and storm that had carried away so many souls from out of their midst.

For the first time in years, there was truly carefree dancing on Samhain, dancing as lightsome and carefree that only fae were able to do it. For the first time in years, there were dances after midnight. For the first time in years, Enjolras did not flee the room with a mask pressed to his face and tears burning streaks of acid into his skin. For the first time, he had Grantaire back by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> Say Hello on [Tumblr](https://edgy-fluffball.tumblr.com/)!


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